M'CAFFERTY'S RIDE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5961, 28 August 1897, Page 2

M'CAFFERTY'S RIDE.

(The Australasian Pastoralists' Levies.) Chapter I. Jim M'Cafforty — or Mac, as he was generally called — had ridden the winner in many a bush " meet," and as for breaking young 'uns or sitting a genuine buckjumper, why there wasn't his equal at the game on the plains. He used to brag that he would back Satan himself if the opportunity ever offered. Mac was long in the legs, and not too weighty up above, with that easy movement in the saddle which characterises most Australian rough riders. .Walking he looked a cross between an old man kangaroo and a prize-fighter. Numberless falls had disfigured his face — for the best horseman must come down sometimes— and continual fights for mastery with unhandled colts had dragged down the coiners of his mouth and fixed a hard, determined expression on his countenance, He didn't know, what fear meant. Wiienjj not otherwise employed, Mac worked a little selection out on the One Tree Plain, some forty miles from the township of Hay. He generally kept two or three "good uns," as he called them, the squatters wlio owned them paying for their training. On the course he had marked out in his "home" paddock some record trials had been made, so that whenever it was well known that Mac had entered some stranger for a race, the money went upon him at once. Now, early in the eighties, Mac had received from a neighbouring squatter a dark bay, three years old, which the trainer, with his customary frankness, termed a " brute," meaning thereby that the youngster was something out of the common as regarded speed and endurance. In his judgment of the merits of his new charge he was not at fault, for the first trail proved the horse's sterling qualities beyond question. Mac's advice to the owner to enter him for the Hay Cup to be run a few months later was taken, and in due course "Pizarro" was nominated. The weight being satisfactory, acceptance followed as a mattei* of course. " Pizarro " improved every day under the careful handling of Mac. That he would win was a foregone conclusion, and all the money to be had was taken about him. It wanted but a fortnight to the day of the meeting. " Pizarro " was to be moved up to Hay at once. Mac was all excitement. The prospect of landing a pot of money was almost too much for his nerves to bear. At all times of night he would get out of bed and go to the horse's box to see if things were right. One of the boys he employed had to sit up till daylight with the animal. Had " Pizarro " been worth as much as " Carbine " they couldn't have made more fuss over him. The night before the horse was to go to Hay, Mac was very restless, A hot wind was blowing and the air was heavy with dust. The few sheep on tlie run bleated continuously, which Mac took to be a bad sign. So much did this idea grow upon him at last that he left his bed, where he had thrown himself, dressed, and groped about in the dark for his boots. All at once he uttered a fearful cry, followed by savage oath. His wife awoke m alarm, asking what was wrong. " A light, Mary ; for God's sake strike a match, quick !" he replied. In an instant she found a match and lit the candle standing on a chair by the bed. " Don't leave the bed !" he yelled. Then lifting his foot near the light he exhibited to the horrifid gaze of his wife the blue punctures of a venomous snake, which had bitten him on the inside of the right foot. "D tion !" he swore ; " a black un, too." "Oh! Jim, Jim," was all the weeping woman could say. Without a word he ripped the sheet into strips ancl bound the pieces tightly round his leg in different positions ; then opening his pocket-knife he slashed and scarified the bitten place until the blood poured out; shutting the knife he used the handle to tighten the uppermost binding. His next step was to lift, a weighted whip-handle from the wall and kill the snake, which lay coiled up in a far corner. Then, kissing his wife, he left the room saying—" ' Pizarro ' will have his race to-night. I'm going to ride him to Hay." The stable boy stared stupefied at the order to "saddle 'Pizarro." He obeyed though. " A spur and whip, quick !" almost yelled Mac. The former the boy fixed on, and as he stooped he noticed the man's bleeding foot. He understood then. " Going to Hay ?" he asked stolidly. " Tes." " Tiger snake, sir ?" " Black." " Tou'll never get there." Emphatically, " I shall. Let him go !" f And as the boy took his hand from the horse's bridle, away dashed the pair into the teeth of the hot wind. A wild cry of sorrow rent the air. Mrs M'Cafferty stood on the doorstep of the cottage, wringing her hands. Chapter 11. Through the heavy veil of red dust raised by the scorching wind, the moon now low in the west, looked like a ball of fire. It was as if she was the mouth of some great furnace, and the angry, fiery blast was pouring from her. And away down in the east was another glow — that of approaching day. On the shelterless, dried-up plain, looking like a mere atom, were " Pizarro " and his rider. Tho gallant horse, his left side scored by the spur, his right equally bloody from Mac's wound, still plunged ahead, throwing flakes of foam right and left, and drawing his breath in painful gasps. No phantom could have been more strange. And Mac was dreaming. In spite of the bandages, loss of blood and the effects of the poison had cast him in a state of semicoma. The heat, the dust, the direction in which he was going, were nothing to him. He was not riding for his life. No ! He was mounted on " Pizarro " for the Hay Cup. Once round they had been. There, ahead, he could see the winning post. He led the field. He could hear the thunder of hoofs, the swish of the whips behind him. The hoarse xoar of the wind in his ears was the exultant cheer of the crowd as he came up the straight. Ha! What was that? "Pizarro" down! No, only a stumble. Up again with the only dangerous horse at his girths. The whip, yes, " Pizarro " must be helped along a bit. "Ha! ha! ha!" Three heavy cuts. Drive home the spur. Again he leads.

Tet another cut or two and the race is I won. And poor " Pizarro " scored and bleeding gallops his b:*..ive heart out on the One Tree plain. Chapter 111. At an early hour the main street of Hay echoed to fhe beat of a galloping hor?* I'-*1 '-* foot. Heads wero poked out of doors and windows, to be followed by the owners, as Mac, swaying too and fro in the saddle of " Pizarro," sped by. A gain and again the noble horse stumbled. His knees were skinned. His breathing was one continual groan. His sides were gory from his own and his, now insensible rider's wounde. Mac still held the whip. Even in death he kept his seat. It was a pitiful sight. Gradually the horse slackened his pace until it ended in a stagger. A crowd surrounded him and received Mac as he slid from the saddle. . A glance told what was wrong— a second that it was too late. While willing hands carried the body into the nearest house, "Pizarro" stood trembling unable to move a step. All at onco the beast heaved a deep sigh. Those around him stood back watching, with bated breath, the struggle for life. But the journey had been too much for "Pizarro." He sank to the ground, was convulsed for a moment, and died. Horse and rider passed the post— not among the cheers but the lamentations of the people.